


trust exercise.

by teasoni



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Choking, Consensual Non-Consent, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gun Kink, Kink Negotiation, Reader-Insert, Uniform Kink, female reader w/ associated genitalia, just putting it out there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-25 20:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16204979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teasoni/pseuds/teasoni
Summary: It’s a strange thing, really, to have a fully-armed SWAT operative standing in the middle of your living room. Under normal circumstances, you’d be worried. More than worried – you’d probably be downright terrified. But, as it is, these are not quite normal circumstances.





	trust exercise.

**Author's Note:**

> well _someone_ had to write the allen gunfuck/uniform kink fic

It’s a strange thing, really, to have a fully-armed SWAT operative standing in the middle of your living room. Under normal circumstances, you’d be worried. More than worried – you’d probably be downright terrified. But, as it is, these are not quite normal circumstances.

“I feel ridiculous.” He isn’t wearing a helmet, so his voice cuts clear and only a little self-conscious across the room. “I _look_ ridiculous.”

“You look great,” you say, and it’s true – you’ve always had a soft spot for men in uniform. It’s hard not to laugh, actually, at how bashful he is to be standing there gunned up to the teeth. His face is stern as he looks at you, his mouth set into a grim line, brow pulled low and dark as stormclouds over his eyes.

“Are you _sure_ about this?” He takes a step closer – one, two. In the silence of your living room you can hear the rush of material and kevlar and tiny steel buckles. You hope your face is encouraging, though it’s hard to swallow the tingling excitement that’s set on clawing its way up your throat.

“Yeah. I’m sure. You can check the clip again, if you like.”

He doesn’t bother – he’s checked it five times already. He tries not to let it show, but he’s _nervous_ , you know he is. If there’s one thing you know about Captain Allen, it’s that he takes his job very seriously, and as the _captain_ of the DPD’s SWAT team, he doesn’t play lightly with it. And yet, despite that nervousness, you can see the glimmer of excitement behind his frown. He’s holding himself differently than he does out of uniform, even though he’s not _technically_ on the clock; he’s standing straighter, with squared shoulders and feet planted apart, rifle held against his belly. His eyes meet yours and your throat tightens, belly growing warm at the sight of him.

There’s no signal, no word to start. Just a look shared between you – a fraction of a second – and then he shifts his rifle until he has it braced against the junction of his shoulder. You’re caught right between his crosshairs; one eye shut, the other clear and impossibly blue. Your heart begins to race. You can feel the blood pounding in your fingertips already. Safety off, finger on the trigger.

He moves first. Gun still held high, he moves silently across the living room even despite his uniform, and with each step he takes forwards you take one backwards. You feel, quite suddenly, overwhelmingly vulnerable. _You_ have no fancy outfit, no bulletproof vest, no assault rifle. All you have is a plain shirt and a pair of jeans – even your feet are bare, rasping against the carpet as you try not to let your hands shake.

You reach out behind you to feel for the wall. You don’t dare take your eyes off him. The wood of the doorframe rises under your touch and you back, slowly, into the bedroom. Allen seems… larger, like this. Imposing, like a shadow filling the room, snuffing out the light. Impervious, undefeatable. Frightening. Your blood rushes and your breath rattles, excitement igniting something deeper and infinitely more dangerous.

_Arousal._

Finally, backed into a corner against your bed, you can go no further. You stop, as does he, blocking the only exit you have. There’s no hope of escape. He knows it, too. Whatever nervousness had been there before has vanished, replaced instead by that same dark fascination you feel in the marrow of your bones.

He lowers his rifle and closes the distance between you; the barrel catches against the hem of your shirt and he lifts it until he can see the slip of your belly, the gleam of the button of your jeans. He uses that gun to pull up your shirt and you stand there, consumed with your own vulnerability, barely able to hear anything over the pounding of your own heart in your ears.

“Take it off.”

 _Oh._ That’s not a voice you’re used to hearing. All the softness is gone from his tone. This… this is his _captain_ voice, the one he uses on the job. You’ve only heard it a handful of times. Hastily, you peel your shirt up over your head and let it drop to the floor at your feet. Every single pore rises at the wash of cold air against your skin. He’s watching you like a hawk, too, his eyes roaming over every inch of exposed flesh. He doesn’t try and be subtle about it. He _knows_ he has the upper hand. He can make you do whatever the fuck he wants and there is _nothing_ you can do about it.

He motions to your pants. “Those too.”

You obey. There’s nothing else to do except what you’re told. Your jeans join your shirt and you stand there practically naked while he watches you, clad in his body armour and armed to the teeth.

“Don’t say a word,” he tells you, voice dropping to little more than a growl, and he presses in even closer. The barrel pinches against your navel until you’re forced to move back; your claves hit your bed and with a single, firm shove you tumble backwards, catching yourself on your elbows and gazing up at him. The fear is a pleasant sensation; the adrenaline slowly creeping into your muscles, the way your heart just _won’t slow down_ , because everything about this situation is so overtly dangerous. _Life-threatening_. Heat coils tight and restless between your legs. “Do as your told and nobody gets hurt.”

You can tell he’s fallen completely into the role, now. It’s easy for you to do the same. After all, you’ve been plagued by dreams of him doing something like this ever since you met him. Sure, it might not be conventional to crave being fucked at gunpoint, but… well, you’ve never been conventional.

He doesn’t want a reply; he doesn’t care for one. It doesn’t matter if you say _yes_ or _no_ anyway. He’s got the gun trained at your ribcage. He can do what he wants.

He taps the barrel against the inside of your knee. _Spread ‘em._ Obediently, silently, you let your legs fall apart. Your thighs quiver. Surely he can already see the telltale dampness at the heart of your underwear – oh, yes, he definitely can. That tiny twitch of his brow confirms it.

Allen shifts his rifle against his hip, using his free hand to pull out the sig at his belt. He leans the rifle against the nightstand. _Too cumbersome_ _for close contact_.

Heat lances through you when you realise you didn’t check _that_ gun’s clip the way you had with the rifle. You have no idea if there’s any bullets in there. You don’t even know if Allen does, and he gives nothing away. _Bastard_.

Allen’s free hand finds your neck. Your throat. Gloved fingers wrap around the sensitive flesh just beneath your chin, but he doesn’t apply any pressure, not yet. It’s a warning. Don’t move, don’t speak, do exactly as he tells you. The gun presses icy and foreign against your thigh and you can’t stop your hips from twisting in response. You can’t see what he’s doing – his hand is holding your head too tightly, forcing your gaze to the ceiling as he wrestles your underwear down your legs. You hear him chuckle low in his throat, and you glance along the line of his arm to see him wrenching off his glove with his teeth.

And then his fingers are on you.

They’re warmer than you expected them to be, more familiar than the cool leather of his glove. Probing, exploring, sinking into that slick, wet heat between your legs. Your body has betrayed how insanely aroused you are; your shivering breath can’t hide it anymore. You reach up to grip his wrist and he _squeezes_ , fingers tightening around your neck, making you choke on your tongue. His thumb finds your clit and _grinds_ , hard, for a few seconds. Only when he manages to wrangle a hoarse moan from your lips does he let up.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, the hand around your throat loosening. He dusts the hair back from your face, though the gesture feels mocking, almost. _You love it._ “You’ll be good for me, won’t you?”

You nod, _yes, yes, I’ll be good, I promise._ Your cunt is aching already. Searing. _Dripping._

His hand is on your throat again, the bulk of his body bullying between your thighs. You can feel the harsh weave of his trousers against your bare skin, the pinch of velcro and buckles, but the pain is sweet, a drop of honey on the tongue. What you _don’t_ expect is the press of the sig against your lips. You glance at him, curious and perhaps a little panicked, but his face is closed, expression as telling as stone. He presses harder until your lips smart against your teeth, and then you open your mouth, admitting the gun against your tongue. Saliva pools against the metal and it’s… it’s arousing. God damn it, it _is._ You make a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob, but it’s muffled; Allen presses the smallest of smiles when he hears it.

Your neck is free only for as long as it takes for him to pop his fly. The pressure returns, accompanied by the hot, heavy weight of his dick against your slit, and _fuck_ he’s already hard. His fingers press tighter around your throat as he pushes the head of his cock up between your folds, grazing against your clit, teasing until you arch your hips and whine around the gun in your mouth. He shoves it deeper until you gag. Tightens his grip on your neck. Your head grows light and you melt, melt, melt.

He fucks into you in one deep thrust. You’re so wet it’s easy for him to slide in, but the stretch still stings, and it takes a few rough jostles of his hips before he can move easily. There are no loving touches, no tenderness, no affection. He doesn’t wait for you to adjust – he begins fucking you hard and deep and all you can do is whine pathetically around the barrel of the sig, hoping his concentration won’t stray far enough for him to accidentally blow out the back of your skull. It’s… it’s a gruesome thought, and yet your body _feeds_ off it, clamping down around his dick until he groans and meets your eyes again. His fingers grip you just tight enough that you grow dizzy, but not tight enough to threaten your consciousness. Right at the back of his eyes – beyond the haze of his arousal and the power play – you can still see him, that same old David Allen who had balked with concern when you first suggested this whole thing. He’s still there, you know it, ready to pull the strings if things go too far. But he’s buried behind _Captain Allen_ , the one that makes your skin burn with need, and for now, that’s just fine.

Allen begins to fuck the gun in and out of your mouth in time with his thrusts. It’s invasive and humiliating and you thrive on it, the metal slick and glistening with spit. He’s impossibly hard inside you – you feel stuffed beyond capacity and it’s _so good please fuck me more fuck me deeper –_

“Good girl,” Allen snarls, his hips pounding, your skin chafing from his uniform, tiny little bruises blooming where your flesh gets caught and pinched between his buckles. He wrenches the gun from your mouth and bends over your body to kiss you, his lips hungry and his tongue bullying past your teeth, taking whatever he wants, whatever he needs. What _you_ need because you need this, _I need you, David, captain, please, I need you_. His breath washes hot and desperate against your cheek; his teeth pinch against your jaw and he begins to _really_ choke you out, both hands wrapped around your neck, those unnerving blue eyes trained on your face. You probably look like a fucking wreck: lips flushed and slick with spit, face going red as you struggle to breathe, body twitching and spasming as he fucks you to within an inch of your life. You’re vaguely aware of the sig lying beside your head.

You scrabble at his arms as your vision begins to blacken. The sounds you’re making are pathetic, but they seem to be stoking the fire lit in Allen’s gut and his hips begin to _slam_ , forcing moan after moan from your purpling lips. Are they even moans? Who knows – you can’t breathe, your head is fizzing like sherbet left out in the sun, your skin is on fire and you don’t know how much longer you can take it –

Allen is close, too. Sweat glistens across his nose and upper lip, breath coming rapidly, his movements losing their precision. Sloppy. He can’t keep his eyes off you.

One hand slips free of your throat, but it’s not much of a respite – the other doubles effort, his thrusts not so much as stuttering as he picks up the sig and aims it right between your eyes. You hear the click of the safety and see his finger go to the trigger.

Your orgasm hits you unexpectedly – there’s no gradual build-up, only the sudden slam of pleasure washing through you, a flash flood, drowning, drowning, drowning. You can’t breathe. Everything goes black, then white, then there’s an explosion of colour behind your eyelids and your entire body lifts itself from the bed; every single muscle cramps and tenses, as though your body has completely lost control of itself; a body swinging from the hangman’s noose. It’s only a wonder your head doesn’t explode from the pressure.

When you regain your wits – which isn’t for at least a minute, probably longer – you’re aware of the loss of pressure on your throat and the strange stillness that’s fallen over the room. The sheets are drenched with sweat beneath you, but you can’t move. Limbs are jelly. Muscles won’t listen. All you can do is lie there and breathe, blinking until your vision clears.

Allen kneels over you, still between your thighs, though his dick has slipped free of you; his face is dripping sweat and you can see his arms shaking. He looks at you, meets your gaze, and offers you an exhausted smile before promptly collapsing on his back beside you.

“Wow,” you breathe. Your voice sounds odd, even to your own ears. Hoarse. Allen manages a chuckle and you feel his fingers on your face, stroking away the hair that had plastered itself to your sweaty forehead. “That was…”

You’re not sure how long you lie there. It’s blissful, though, as if your conscious stands outside your body, spirit separated from flesh and bone. Allen gets up first, kicking his way out of his uniform and sighing in relief at the cool wash of air across his body. You see all the red lines and creases from where his clothes had cut into his skin. He collapses down next to you again and you roll into his side, glad to be skin-on-skin again.

“That sig… the clip was empty, wasn’t it?”

He looks at you, perplexed. “Of course it was. Do you honestly think I would fuck you with a loaded gun?”

You purse your lips. “Well. I wasn’t sure! I didn’t know.”

Allen raises himself onto an elbow so he can look down at your face; he leans in to kiss you, gentle and sweet. “I’d never put you in danger. You know that.”

And you do, oh, you do. Because he loves you, and you love him, so much so that you trusted each other in a scene like that. You trusted him even when he was aiming a gun – which may or may not have been loaded – at your forehead. You would give him the power of life and death again and again, because you know he’d protect it. Protect you.

“I love you.” You press the words against his lips in a kiss, and you feel him smile against your mouth.

“I love you too.”


End file.
